


Windowsill

by zwow



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Sex, Angst, M/M, Unsafe Sex, just fucking and then speaking at each other, little to no dialogue, metaphors instead of action verbs oops, they do not speak to each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:00:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28808484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zwow/pseuds/zwow
Summary: Zayn and Harry have never been good to or for each other, but cigarettes and fucking on the windowsill... that's one thing they're good at.
Relationships: Zayn Malik/Harry Styles
Comments: 6
Kudos: 39





	Windowsill

**Author's Note:**

> this fic does not have a beginning and it barely has an ending. I just want to get zayn and harry out of my fucking head. also they do not speak to each other. not like in a metaphorical way, the two of them literally and deliberately do not have two pieces of attached dialogue. Inspired by the zayn song of the same name.

“You want people to see this. You want them to see us.” A humiliated cry stabs it’s way up and out of Harry’s chest and into his throat. He shakes his head but can’t say no. He can’t lie to Zayn. He’s never been able to.

Zayn presses Harry tighter against the window and Harry shivers when the cool glass presses directly onto his nipples. He absolutely keens when the head of his cock brushes against the pane.

Harry reaches a hand down, whether to pull himself off or to just protect his dick from the overstimulating cold he’s not sure, but Zayn grabs his hand before he can. He moves them together until Harry’s palm is pressed flat against the window, Zayn’s tattooed fingers bracketing his own possessively.

“Please.” Harry isn’t sure what he’s asking for, he hardly ever knows what he’s asking for around Zayn, but Zayn knows. He always does. Zayn knows where Harry should be. He knows how to ground him in one moment and send him to space in another. Zayn knows everything about Harry except the way he feels.

Zayn presses Harry’s palm flat against the window, a silent instruction not to move, before fluttering his hand down Harry’s stretched arm and all the way down Harry’s side. Harry shudders against Zayn’s chest, almost crying out from the anticipation of what Zayn is going to do.

Zayn’s hand wraps firmly around Harry’s cock as he speeds up his thrusts. He fucks into Harry quickly and harsher than Harry usually likes from anyone, but it doesn’t matter what Harry likes, or what he wants. Zayn knows what he loves and what he needs. That’s what matters.

“Harry… Harry…” Zayn says his name like a scripture, he’s being raptured and it’s Harry that’s pulling him to the heavens. It’s his body and his kisses and his personality. It’s Harry.

“Harry…” It feels weird, his own name on his tongue, but the way Zayn said it was so delicious Harry wanted to try it himself.

“Zayn…” Harry wishes that could be his last word, his last contribution to the world a proclamation of the only thing that matters to him in the moment. The only thing that’s mattered to him, actually mattered, in so long.

“Harry.” Zayn buries his face in Harry’s neck like it’s shameful, like Harry’s name is a curse he can’t believe he’s said out loud. Harry doesn’t mind being a curse to Zayn because Zayn is a spell to him.

“Are you there? I’m almost there.” Zayn doesn’t need to ask. He has Harry’s weeping cock in one hand and Harry’s beating heart in the other.

“Zayn.” He whimpers. Zayn. Zayn. _Zayn give me power._ Zayn. _Zayn give me strength._ Zayn. _Zayn give me love. Zayn give me love. Give me love. Zayn. Zayn. Zayn._

“Zayn.” Harry whispers it into the window one last time before he’s throwing his hips back as hard as he can to get every possible inch of Zayn inside him before he comes apart. He watches himself spurt his load onto the window and tries to ignore the tears falling down his face at the same speed his cum drips down the glass.

“Harry.” Zayn bites the word into Harry’s neck, marks him on the outside with Harry’s name as he marks him on the inside with his own.

They stay together for only a few seconds after coming, neither of them knows what to do with each other. Zayn pulls out slowly and leaves Harry empty in more ways than one. Silently, he backs away and leaves Harry to stare out of the window and ignore the handprints and cum on the pane and the ache already building in his chest.

“Do you want one?” Zayn lights up a cigarette, takes a drag, then offers the pack to Harry. Harry keeps staring out of the window, but reaches his hand back to take it and the lighter.

“Why do we keep doing this?” Harry asks but doesn’t expect an answer. Zayn knows everything about him, but he knows nothing about _them._ It’s been six years since their first time and neither of them can quit whatever this is. Harry just wants to know why. He could have anyone. Zayn could have anyone.

Why do they choose each other over and over again only to leave over and over and over again?

Harry turns around to face Zayn and look at him for the first time. Zayn stares back. Harry looks at Zayn like he’s trying to see into his soul, maybe he is. Zayn looks back like he’s trying to keep it hidden, maybe he is.

“Did you ever think that we could work out? Besides, like, just the fucking?” There’s honesty and openness and a vulnerability in Zayn’s voice that makes Harry look away.

Harry doesn’t speak because he can’t lie to Zayn. He’s never been able to, and he doesn’t want to admit that he doesn’t think they’d make it a week.

Harry is too… Harry. And Zayn is too… Zayn. And this is too… Them… to be anything else. He wants it, more than anything, because nobody makes him feel like Zayn does and the biggest, most afraid parts of Harry fear that no one else ever will. Harry wants it so bad he keeps going back to the hookup hotels and the one night meet ups if only to pretend for a few hours.

“I didn’t think so.” Zayn smirks into his cigarette, but it isn’t mean. It’s almost soft; regretful and sad. It’s a joke that either of them ever considered it. For the first time, Harry sees how _he_ feels reflected in Zayn’s face.

It’s pain. It’s hurt. It’s understanding. It’s wistfulness. It’s lust. It’s questioning. It’s pride. It’s fear. It's something else on the tip of Harry's tongue that he's never been able to even think, but now that he sees it in Zayn's face it's drowning him in the need to say it out loud, choking him as he tries to swallow it down.

“I think I love you.” His voice warbles over to Zayn, he hates that he’s said it, but he can’t make himself regret it.

Zayn puffs his cigarette once more then flicks his ash onto the ground without a care. Harry sees his heart crushed under Zayn’s socked foot when he rolls it over the ash so it doesn’t ignite on the carpet.

“Then don’t leave.”

It won’t work. They both know it, they’ve always known it. But for some reason, Harry finishes his cigarette, rolls his eyes at the mess they’ve made on the windowsill, and stays the night anyway. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading this little snippet, stream Nobody is Listening for clear skin and leave comments for a chance to be the next american idol or whateva


End file.
